Fallen Angel, Risen Demon
by Sword of the Shadow
Summary: When Draco stumbles upon a ragged book Harry leaves behind, it sets him on the path of discovery that will lead him deeper into Harry's heart of darkness. Possible slash.
1. Chapitre Un

Fallen Angel, Risen Demon

With a curious smirk he reached down with long, graceful fingers to pluck the object off the stone floor of the classroom. He fingered the spine of the book idly, examining it minutely.

The book was nothing like he had ever seen before. The cover was cloth or something like it, a thick weave that was coarse against his fingertips but somehow oddly comforting. It was a dark navy blue, stained dark in some places and lightened almost to an off-white in others. Faded words were emobossed on the front, the last remnants of gold glittering from them idly as if in tribute to a lost age of prosperity.

He peered at the intently, squinting his eyes to try and discern the writing, but could come up with nothing. With a defeated sigh he opened the book, flipping through the yellowing pages, not even bothering to skim but just watching the words flash by with mild interest.

The words were in an odd style, each letter precise and accurate. With a start he realised that all of the were the same, no difference between them. It was as if something inhuman, some inexplicable entity had created the book.

"What is this?" he asked himself, rubbing his fingertips over the ink, fingernails skimming over the pages silently. Shocked, he paused and felt the cover of the book again to assure himself that his nerves were still working.

Amazed, he ran over the words again. There was no slight indention such as a quill would leave behind, no blots or words scratched through hastily.

His eyes lit up with sudden anticipation. Quickly he flipped back to the very beginning. The book spun out of his hands. Cursing, he picked it up. He was used to the heavier, more substantial feel of parchment, not this intangible fluff so thin he could barely turn the pages.

He finally managed to open it, noticing with despair that the first several pages had been ripped out and despite his best efforts he could not possibly conceive of what might be contained with in them, precious gems lost to him forever.

Fighting the heaviness of depresing loss, he smoothed a crinkled page down with one hand, reading the words on the page aloud as if they were all that mattered in the world.

"Chapter One. It was a bright cold da-"

"What the bloody hell are you doing, Malfoy?" asked a clearly enraged voice.

He spun around to face a furious Harry Potter standing just inside the entrance to the room, green eyes narrowed in abhorrence and disgust and nostrils flaring in anger. The heavy book fell from his grasp and clattered to the floor, but he did not notice.

After blinking a few times he regained his legendary composure, drawing himself up to his full height (much taller than Potter) and sneering with disdain. "I'm reading, of course. I wouldn't expect you to be able to, of course, but it's really not that hard for those of us with intelligence."

Potter rolled his eyes in annoyance. "Give me back my book, now, Malfoy," he demanded, holding one callused palm out before him.

"Like you could own something like this Potter, you and your stupid Gryffindor innocence." His tongue was condenscending and patronizing, a mockery of pleasant speech.

"Just because I'm a Gryffindor doesn't mean I'm innocent," Harry replied obtusely, seething with rage. Without another word he stormed forward and snatched the book from Draco's feet, whirling around and exiting dramatically.

"Potter?" Draco asked no one after a moment. "Reading that? Impossible."

But doubt still lingered in his mind, along with the unanswered challenge.

Almost forgetting himself he stopped himself from slamming the heavy volume down angrily onto the table. It would not do to ruin his reputation or to be yelled at by Madame Pince.

Still, he admitted to himself, his search was not progressing as well as he had expected.

Obtaining a pass for the Restricted Section was the most obvious thing to do, of course. As he was a seventh year and involved in several of the more difficult N.E.W.T. classes, he could have asked any of his professors for it and had his request granted. Well, except for McGonagall. She seemed to think that the Restricted Section should be banned. Obviously there was no useful information in there.

Snorting silently to himself in derision of the Head of Gryffindor he reached for another heavy tome, this one the same worn navy that Potter's had been.

Days of searching had lead him no closer to the answer than he had been before the discovery that there was a question that needed answering. His pass, a limited one as always, was almost used up. Even Professor Snape would grow suspicious if Draco asked for two passes in a week, blind as he might be to the less than honourable actions of his Slytherins.

"Mr. Malfoy, you have been in here for long enough. Though I admire your dedication to your schoolwork, I have better things to do than monitor your access to this section."

Madame Pince spoke in her clipped tones per usual, but with an additional added sting. That Granger girl must be pestering her about something again, he decided suddenly.

Biting back the retort that he could have read any of these books at home and likely more, he instead settled for a more polite (and less likely to bring himself to the attention of the Aurors) response. "Yes, madame. Please, accept my apologies. I have not been able to find the article that I was looking for and this lack of knowledge distresses me. I thought that surely they library would have it somewhere, but I suppose I was mistaken."

Draco smirked inwardly as the librarian's ips pinched together tightly in a firm gaze, but her eyes held a spark of light that someone was interested in her dry world of parchment and dust.

_All I had to do was appeal to her pride,_ he thought with a mock-humble shug. _Really, it's too easy._

"There is nothing that the Hogwarts library does not contain, Mr. Malfoy. Perhaps you would like some assistance?"

_It couldn't hurt. If Potter was reading it, it can't be anything to terrible._

"I greatly appreciate your offer of help, madame, and would be delighted to have someone as capable as yourself to assist me." He kept to the formal language that she always used (likely the result of far too many monotonous books) and added a hint of flattery. More than likely she had a secret passion for romantic mush that she would rather die than admit. He had always been a good judge of character, at least as far as instinctively knowing how to manipulate another went.

"What was the book about, Mr. Malfoy?"

"Oh, I am not certain. I did not get a good look at it, but a mere glance was enough to intrigue me. It had a rather odd navy cover, but the unusual thing was that it certainly was not written by a quill. I've never seen such a monstrosity before."

"Books are certainly not monsters," she replied stiffly, drawing up and sniffing disdainfully.

"I did not mean to indicate that they were," he lied smoothly, slight smile granting nothing of his true thoughts, "only that I feel handwriting your work gives it a much more personal touch."

"I certainly agree," Madame Pince all but gushed, flushing with the thought that another shared her passion. "It's a shame that the Muggles had to go and ruin that."

Harry drew up against a wall in a corridor long abandoned. He clutched the book tightly to his chest, trying to forget, trying to remember.

If he'd read any of it, if he began to understand...

"He won't," he assured himself fiercely. "He can't."

But that didn't stop him from feeling vulnerable, from wishing that he would stop dropping all these outward signs.

"I'm such a damn fool," he spat bitterly. "Carrying it around with me as if no one would know. No one can know. They won't like it. Won't like me."

He wondered when he'd become so paranoid. "Long time ago," he decided finally. "'snot important, anyway. Doesn't matter."

But what if...?

He almost smacked his head against the wall in frustration, mad at his stupidity, angry at his own ineptitude.

"I know why I'm obsessed," he whispered, so quietly that he himself was hardly able to hear. "He's like me. So much like me. He can't win. It's too big. Too bad."

He stopped himself, gazing upwards to the god he did not believe in with haunted eyes. "But is it evil?"

"Muggles?" he hissed, making no effort to conceal his disgust, "what do they have to do with this?"

The librarian started in surprised, unconciously taking a step backwards as his eyes flamed in anger. She regained control of herself, impartial mask slipping into place and haughty tone invading her voice once more.

"It's obviously a Muggle book, Mr. Malfoy. All others are hand-written."

"But what would-?"

He stopped himself quickly, noting the searching gaze of the other. "Well, then where are they?"

Madame Pince nodded in satisfaction. "Our Muggle Literature Section is one of the most extensive in the magical world, containing-" Draco ignored the rest of what she was saying, strutting off behind her as she led him to an area of the library he had never bothered to enter before.


	2. Chapitre Deux

Hey! Sorry it took so long to update, but life is... well, life. Anyway, it's up now, even if it's short. This fic is not really about any kind of interactions. It's more of an essay using the Harry Potter characters, actually. It's not intended to be fun or funny or anything, so if you don't like that kind of stuff, stop reading. I've got other, different fics.

Anyway, here ya go!

"Here we are." Madame Pince handed him a book, different from the one Potter had. The cover was a thick kind of paper, with "1984" written across the top in bold, colourful letters. Draco flipped to the opening chapter, skimming over the first few lines.

"Thank you most kindly, Madame Pince. I shall have an enjoyable time with this book."

She tapped the novel with her wand, and the his name appeared on the ticket in the inside cover. "The book is due in three weeks, Mr. Malfoy-"

"Madame Pince, I was wondering if you had anything on the uses of-" It was Hermione Granger, of course. Really, she ought to know the library well enough to be the librarian herself. But she did cause a decent enough distraction so that Draco could slip away without any more prying questions.

Settled comfortably on a couch in his room (as Head boy he had his own), Draco began to read the book. It started off rather slow, telling the story of a man inside a rather restrictive government.

"Muggles are so stupid," he noted aloud, "allowing one man to control every aspect of their lives. I don't understand how they can live like that."

Harry was curled up in a chair in the common room long after everyone else had gone to bed. His book was held closely to his chest, leaving an imprint on his black jumper. He'd read the book so many times he almost had it memorized, but he still had no answers to his questions.

He was exactly like Winston Smith, for the most part. Oh, sure, he had no vericose ulcer on his leg and he wasn't a thirty odd, balding man, but the similarities were there all the same.

And he had a feeling that he would end exactly as Winston did.

The portrait to the common room slid open smoothly, revealing a shadowed form. "Who's there?" he called out with no real interest; he wasn't a prefect and he wasn't about to wake Hermione so that she could take off House points.

"Interesting book you were reading, Potter."

"Malfoy?"

The blonde stepped into the dim light of the fire with his customary smirk fixed on his face. "I didn't know you had an interest in Muggle literature, Potter."

"I don't." Harry turned his face away, not wanting to talk to anyone, let alone Malfoy.

"Did you like it?"

Harry turned back, blinking in surprise. "What do you care?"

Draco shrugged noncommittally. "I don't particularly. But I read it, and I've always liked discussing the books I've read. As you're the only one I know who has read it, I figured that we could talk about it."

Harry's eyebrows rose in doubt. "You read a Muggle book?" In response, Draco lifted his own paperback copy. "I've got to be insane."

Draco settled down on a couch, looking not at all uncomfortable in the midst of all the red and gold. He crossed his legs neatly under him and propped his elbow on one knee, using his wrist to support his head. "So, why did you read it?"

Harry gave a one-shouldered shrug. "I found it in my cousin's room two summers ago. It was something to do."

"Two summers ago? And you're still carrying it around? It was a decent enough book, but hardly that good."

"What did it make you think of?"

"It made me think that Muggles are stupid, of course. Allowing themselves to be controlled like that."

"And how is that any different from Lord Voldemort?"

"The two have nothing in common!"

"I can't prove it or anything, but I swear that George Orwell was a wizard. It makes sense, doesn't it? Big Brother, he's the Voldemort of his time. He controls everything to the point where even the resistance is set up by the government."

"That's preposterous!"

Harry cocked an eyebrow. "Is it?"

Draco's mind spun, thoughts racing in directions that had previously been barred. Harry continued speaking, sending his thoughts in increasingly hectic paths.

"What are we supposed to believe in? Prophecies and fate? Those can all be rigged and faked. How do we know that Dumbledore isn't really just a sham?"

"You're a Gryffindor. Dumbledore is your God. How can you even think that he's wrong?"

"How could stuttering, timid Quirrel be a Death Eater? How could your father evade capture for years despite concrete evidence that he was serving Voldemort? Nothing makes sense in this world, Malfoy, nothing at all.

"Except for this. There's some of us who are caught in the middle. Me. Winston. Julia. How do these people choose which path to go down?"

"You pick the winning side, of course," Draco responded with his typical arrogance.

"How do we know there are any sides at all? In the end, their little rebellion merely ended up furthering the goals of the Party. How do I know that's not what I'm doing?"

"You don't."

Miserably, Harry nodded.

After his late night talk with Malfoy, Harry dreamed. His scar was an ulcer in the shape of a ghastly lightning bolt. Posters were plastered over every flat surface, depicting a snake-eyed Voldemort captioned with "The Dark Lord Is Watching You".

Ridiculously, he was wearing the same tattered gray robes that Sirius had worn the first time Harry had ever seen him. In his hand was a package of Bertie Botts Every Flavour Beans, which he ate with obvious relish.

Suddenly Malfoy appeared behind him, pecking him on the cheek with soft lips and holding out a grease-stained hand. Obligingly, Harry poured a handful of beans into his palm.

"It's so hard to find real candy these days," Malfoy commented. "The only way to get it is on the Black Market, from the Muggles. However did you manage?"

Harry shrugged, popping a coffee flavoured bean into his mouth. "I found this shop outside of Diagon Alley. It's a Mug shop, but I don't think it was watched. It's safe enough for now."

"You're brilliant, Harry," Draco complimented, smiling widely.

The scene shifted, leaving Harry alone in a dingy apartment. On his lap was Tom Riddle's school diary, which he wrote in with a black Phoenix feather. "Saw Dumbledore at work today," he mouthed along with his writing. "He had that look in his eyes. I think he's good. I should try to talk to him, see what he knows. Maybe he has Flamel's book. I want to rebel; I don't like the Party. But I could get caught. But maybe it's all worth it."

Suddenly, Death Eaters burst through the door, dragging him off to face Dumbledore. "You wrote in your diary that you could trust me, Harry. Can you?"

The rest of the dream dissolved in frightening images, crushing paperweights, Dementor-shaped rats and rat-shaped Dementors.


	3. Chapitre Trois

**By all rights, this chapter was never supposed to happen. This story was SUPPOSED to be a series of moral and philosophical discussions between Harry and Draco. Now suddenly it goes and gets a plot.**

**This chapter is not for kids. It's not too bad, but it's really not like the rest of the story at all. Damn thing just jumped up and declared that it was in control.**

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"You want one?" Harry asked Draco, gesticulating with the cigarette in his hand.

"You smoke, Potter?" Draco asked in disbelief, throwing his bag onto the ground. "Never would have thought it of you."

Harry just shrugged. "You pick up all sorts of habits you never meant to. So do you want one or not?"

Draco shook his head. "Thanks, but no." Harry shrugged again, and took a long drag. Draco plopped down in a couch opposite him, reveling in the feel of the soft leather. "Can't believe you've got the nerve to come back here," he commented lightly, seeing as Harry wasn't about to strike up the conversation.

"Why? It's a room, and it serves its purpose. I suggested the Room of Requirement because it suits our needs. Besides, who's going to look for us here? It's like the Astronomy Tower- once everyone knew about all the students snogging up there, no one bothers to go anymore."

"What do you know about snogging anyway, Potter?"

Harry turned away, cigarette smoke trailing behind him. "You want something to drink? I can get anything you want."

"Butterbeer's fine."

Harry nodded and reached into a small bar Draco hadn't noticed before. He pulled out a dark brown glass bottle of butterbeer, which he tossed to Draco. For himself he pulled out a small bottle of clear liquor.

"Shots, Potter?" Draco questioned. "What, are you trying to kill yourself? Smoking and alcohol too?"

"Voldemort's the one who is going to kill me, Malfoy. Not a pack of cigarettes or too much liquor."

"You've got one dismal attitude."

Harry didn't say anything for a moment. He stared into his small black shot glass, swirling the liquid around inside. After a moment he tossed the drink back with a gulp, shuddering slightly as the alcohol burned down his throat.

"I'm realistic," Harry corrected after pouring himself another shot. He tipped that one back immediately, barely even waiting until he had swallowed before reaching for another bottle.

"I'm a dead man," Harry continued between gulps, pausing every once in a while to take a long drag on his cigarette. "And I don't see any reason to pretend otherwise."

"What do Granger and Weasley think of that?" In spite of himself, Draco was curious. Harry was revealing himself to be a much more complex and dark individual than he'd ever thought.

"Dunno. Never bothered to ask them. Hermione'd probably tell me I was being stupid, and start pitying me more than usual. As for Ron, he'd be shocked, stutter for a bit, pat me on the back awkwardly, and leave it at that. Not the best of friends."

Draco finished off his butterbeer and set the bottle down, contemplating what Harry had just told him. "What other secrets are you hiding, Potter?" he queried, mostly to himself.

"Why should I trust you?" Harry responded immediately, turning his large emerald eyes to bear directly on Draco's silver ones. "How do I know that you're not just trying to befriend me in order to betray me?"

"I think you've had too much to drink," Draco answered slowly, "as it's pretty obvious you're paranoid."

"Paranoid?" Harry demanded, flabbergasted. "It's a well known fact that your father is a Death Eater. I've got Voldemort out like a bloodhound for my blood. And I just reread 1984. I may be paranoid, but it's understandable."

"What does 1984 have to do with this?"

"Nothing. Everything." Harry paused, sighing and moving over to one of the couches. He flicked the ash off the end of his cigarette, rubbing his forehead with one hand and took a soothing drag before continuing.

"I really don't know what to think anymore," he admitted, talking so quietly Draco had to strain to hear it. "My professors have turned out to be Death Eaters in the past, so I can't trust them. Ron and Hermione, well, they're alright, but they don't understand. They think just because they've done a little that they're ready for everything. They don't have the visions or the nightmares. They're so damn innocent. And even Dumbledore… he just reminds me too much of that old man in the antique shop. He could betray me at any moment, if he thought it would help him."

"What are you saying?" Draco asked when Harry didn't seem to want to say anything more. "That you're constantly on the lookout for the Thought Police? Dumbledore's not going to do anything to you- he needs you too badly."

"What would Dumbledore say if he knew I smoked? Or that I get totally pissed every other day? What would he do if he knew I was spending time with you, or contemplating whether or not I should defect over to Voldemort or… shit."

"I did not just hear that."

"What, shit?"

"No. You've thought about joining Voldemort?"

Harry winced, but nodded anyway. "What else am I supposed to do? If I fight I'll lose. If I run he'll find me." Harry wrenched his head up and away, looking at anything but Draco. "And what the hell am I doing talking to you about this?"

"Give me that cigarette." Harry handed it over without complaint. Draco took a deep breath, hacking as the smoke entered his lungs. "Christ, Potter, how do you stand this thing?" he coughed, his lungs burning.

"You get used to it after a while. I used to think it was terrible when my cousin started. But he's always been a little bitch, and he always gets his way. Didn't want Uncle Vernon to find out he'd been smoking fags, so he stashed 'em in my room."

"So, what, you smoked them in order to get your cousin out of trouble?"

"Something like that." Harry shivered, remembering the lovely conversation with Dudley that had made him start smoking.

"Why, if you hate the bugger so much? Why not just tell him to go and off himself?"

"Dudley can be very… persuasive. And once I got started, it wasn't so bad. He'd give me cigarettes because I didn't have the money to buy them. And I'd do stuff for him."

"Stuff like what?"

"Just favors and stuff. Taking the fall for him, cleaning his room, not telling my uncle and aunt about the shit he pulled." Harry snorted. "Not that they would have cared if they'd known." By this time he'd abandoned the shot glass and was drinking straight out of the bottle. "Probably would have told me that Dudley's deviance was all my doing."

"Are you sure you're alright, Potter?"

"Fuck no."

"Look, Potter, why don't you just get back to your dorm room. I may be a bastard, but I don't enjoy taking advantage of drunken souses."

"Why not?" Harry leaned right up into Draco's face, pushing the other boy's legs apart and rubbing against his crotch. "You know, when I first met you, I thought that you were like my cousin with a wand." He paused, grinning dazedly. "Well, my cousin wouldn't care if he took advantage of me. He'd do it all the time. You scared?"

Draco was just staring at Harry with a look of utter revulsion. "You're drunk."

"Makes it more fun, doesn't it?" Harry asked impishly, pushing up Draco's shirt with clumsy hands.

"Do you even know what you're doing?"

"Are you trying to tell me you don't want me?" Harry pouted, pulling back. He removed his own shirt with drunken slowness, hooking his thumbs in the low waistband of his pants.

Draco couldn't help but stare at Harry's thin, scarred chest, his eyes roaming lower and lower. Harry was attractive, and there was no point in even trying to deny it. He watched with horrified fascination as Harry took an incredibly long swig out of the bottle, gasping for breath when he was done. He stuck the cigarette in one corner of his mouth, moving it back and forth as he stretched languidly. He winked, noticing Draco's gawking, and began to run his hands back and forth against Draco's smooth chest.

"Do you know what the fuck you're doing?" Draco asked in a high voice, trying to ignore the goose bumps that prickled over his skin as Harry's light fingers ghosted over his flesh.

"Course I do," Harry asserted, insulted. He plucked the cigarette out of his mouth and twiddled it between his fingers. "Told you, I do this all the time for Dudley."

"You do _what_?"

"What's so wrong with that? No one worth their own piss would do anything for Dudders, so I do it. And he gives me my cigs."

"You said you did favors for your cousin!"

"Jealous, Draco?" Harry wanted to know, kissing Draco's navel. "Don't worry, I'll do the same for you." Draco moaned, half with longing and half out of shock. Harry grinned, encouraged.

"Don't worry, little Dragon," he crooned, rising to his knees in order to face Draco on a more equal level, "I like you _much_ better." Harry winked and pressed his own lips to Draco's in a rough kiss. His hands continued to skate over Draco's skin, and Draco unconsciously arched into the touch.

With a remarkable display of self control, Draco pushed Harry off, sending the inebriated boy sprawling across the floor. "Look," he managed, breathless from the ferocity of the kiss, "I'm going to take you straight to Dumbledore. I may not like the man, but there's something seriously fucked up with you Potter."

"He won't do anything."

"What do you mean he won't do anything? You're being fucking _raped_ by your fucking _cousin._"

"What doesn't kill you makes you stronger."

"Who the hell told you that, Potter?"

"Dumbledore," Harry admitted, rolling onto his back and staring at the ceiling, captivated by hallucinations only he could see. "Dumbledore doesn't care for anything, really, so long as he wins. He told me it should only make me want to work harder to defeat Voldemort. After all, the sooner he's dead, the sooner I can move out from the Dursley's house."

"What am I supposed to do with you then?" Draco demanded, frustrated. "I can't leave you, and I can't dump you off on anyone, and if I stay you're going to… to… I don't even know what you're going to do next!"

Harry's only answer was a loud snore.


	4. Chapitre Quatre

Chapter Four

Harry awoke, feeling terrified, disgusted, horrified, comfortable, and gormless all at once. He lifted his head off the floor, eyes red and gummy. "Too damn bright," he grumbled, falling back to the floor once more. The lights dimmed. "Much better..."

"Enjoy getting pissed off your ass, Potter?"

"Too looooooouuuudddddddd!" he complained in a slow drawl, rolling onto his back. "Whas all the noise for? Should sleep." He tried to follow his own suggestion, shutting his eyes and pillowing his head on his arms.

"We have Potions in ten minutes, you Mudblood drunk! Get up!"

Harry propped himself up on his arms. "Think Snape'll give me a... hangover potion?" he wondered aloud, looking at Malfoy. The other boy was standing at Harry's feet, arms crossed and mouth in a thin line, looking just like Hermione the one time she'd stumbled upon him after a night spent in the company of Captain Jack.

"You're the one who decided to get drunk, you can deal with the headache, too." He helped Harry to his feet. Harry followed Draco, stumbling along in his wake. Professor Snape looked up from his desk, glaring at Harry as he moved to sit next to Ron. Draco grabbed his arm, jerking him into the desk. Harry was still trying to voice a complaint when Draco dragged him over to another table, sitting both of them down.

"If you try to brew a potion like this, you'll cut off your hand, and Weasley could cut off his hand without a hangover. If you'd like to keep your limbs, you'll shut up and do as I say."

Merlin, what had he said last night, what had he done which would make Draco act, if not nice, than at least not overly hostile? He was sure he'd done something, but the headache pounding at his temples wouldn't let him remember. He shrugged and helped Malfoy with the potion, which mainly amounted to him sitting and watching Draco do everything. He poked at a few ingredients every now and then, shelling the, well, whatever the little blue things were, but Draco made sure to keep the skinning and paring knives on his side of the table.

Snape passed by every now and then, sneering down at Harry, but not saying anything. He exchanged a few confused looks with Draco, one eyebrow raised, but the Slytherin just shook his head and mouthed 'later.'

After Harry bottled the potion (which Draco had been carefully doing, but Harry couldn't wait to get the hell out of the dungeons, so he quickly sloshed the viscous yellow sludge into the glass phial with all the grace of a toddler) he stood to make his way out of the room, his head weaving as he vision tunneled suddenly. Draco, however, had other ideas, snatching his hand once more and yanking him back into his seat. The other students filed out slowly, and Harry watched them with envy. Draco's (manicured) nails were biting into his arm, keeping him leashed down to the table and in Snape's presence.

Snape cleared his throat, moving to stand in front of his desk after everyone but the two boys had left. Draco turned to Harry, grey eyes hard. "You're going to tell him exactly what you told me last night, Potter," he commanded.

Harry's eyes darted from side to side unconsciously, lingering on the door. "What'd I tell you last night?" he slurred, judging the distance as best he could. If he tried really hard, he just might make it to the door before Snape or Malfoy could stop him. "Don't remember."

Draco sighed and stood, keeping a cautious eye on Harry as he made his way over to Snape's desk. He bent down, pulling a bottle of Firewhiskey out of one of the drawers there. "Would you prefer if I got you soused enough to tell him?" he asked, tilting the bottle mockingly in front of Harry's face. "You'll do anything for someone with a couple of fags and a bottle, won't you, Potter?"

"I don't know what the hell you're talking about, Malfoy," he growled, the twisting of the Firewhiskey making his head head spin and his stomach clench.

"Draco, I cannot condone inebriating students-" Snape began, only to be interrupted by a smirking Draco, his eyes still fixed on Harry.

"Oh, I'm sure Dumbledore won't mind," he drawled, smirk firmly in place. "After all, he is fine with incest and rape."

Harry wasn't sure who was more shocked and sickened, himself or Snape, but he didn't care to stay and draw a conclusion. He lurched to his feet, retching as he overturned the pitted desk, stumbling for the door. He fled blindly, crashing into stacks of cauldrons and stools, shins bruised and palms scratched from catching himself as he fell.

Just as suddenly his momentum was arrested, and he fell to the flagstones, hitting his knees hard. Cool hands pulled the hair back from his face as he vomited again and again into an old cauldron. "Fucking hate you," he murmured at last, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and sitting back on his haunches. He fumbled in the pocket of his robes for a fag, lighting it with a snap of his fingers and trying not to hyperventilate.

"Draco, what is this?" Snape asked, eyes focused on the panicked student shuddering on the floor.

"It's nothing," Harry put in quickly, coughing on the smoke. "Malfoy's lying."

"It's not _nothing_," Malfoy spat, righting some of the furniture as he spoke. "You're falling apart, Potter. There's nothing keeping you together anymore; you need help."

"I'm _fine_," Harry repeated, stomach dropping to the floor. Maybe Snape would find a use for it in one of his potions. The smoke that was wreathed around his head fled as he shakily stood. He walked over to his desk, shoving the upset books and parchments into his bag roughly.

"Yes, it's perfectly _fine_ for you to perform sexual favours for your cousin for cigarettes. And it's just absolutely normal for a sixteen year old wizard to be piss-ass drunk every day."

"Detention, Potter."

"What?" Harry turned a red face to Snape. "You can't give me a fucking detention for that!"

Snape just smirked, but his eyes were intently focused, and not at all cruel. "Students are not allowed to drink on the Hogwarts premises, Potter, nor are the allowed to indulge in those muggle death sticks you seem so fond of. Furthermore, your language is most inappropriate, and you are being most disrespectful to a professor. Detention, every night until I believe that your behaviour has changed."

"Go fuck yourself, Snape. And sod off, Malfoy." Harry thrust his bag onto his shoulder, stalking off towards the door.

"I'll expect you at seven, Potter." Harry just flipped him off, missing the loaded glance between the two Slytherins.


End file.
